One Job
by RaisingAmara
Summary: This story contains spoilers for Season 12, Episode 2 of Supernatural.


_**Author's Note:** I was unhappy with the reunion scene in the basement and felt a burning need to expound ... :) Also, I hated the pants. _

Dean stumbled. It was dark in the basement, the steps narrow and steep. It smelled like desperation and death down here, and Dean felt the hairs in his nose retract in rebellion. But coming from the bright sunlight into the dark horror here below didn't give his eyes time to adjust.

He was on the bottom step before his vision had time to acclimate. And then he saw.

He saw, and his eyes went cold. He swung round and drove a vicious elbow right into the chest of the heartless bitch who'd done … THAT to his brother. To his deep satisfaction, she went down like a lead weight, not expecting the viciousness of his attack.

But she should have expected it. She should have known - death was her only option now. Nobody …

nobody …

Did shit like this …

Not to Sammy.

He landed on the slight woman like a wrecked car smashing a leviathan and smiled when he heard delicate bones snap. He pressed down, nose to nose, and wrapped cuffed hands around her slender throat.

"I don't usually get this close on the first date, sweetheart." He growled. "But for you, I'll make an exception." He smiled down at the woman who was about to die. "What you did? To him? Big mistake." He winked.

Her eyes were wide and, he was ecstatic to see, terrified. He wondered absently if his brother had looked at her in the same horrified way, wearing that same expression of fear as she worked him over mercilessly. She tried to scream, tried to breathe, but Dean only smiled.

He'd had only a quick glance of his brother, but he'd seen enough to know Sam was shackled hands and feet.

Helpless, his head forward in resignation, sweaty locks of his hair covering his face, making him look like he was 12 again. But his shirt was covered in blood, and his form shivered uncontrollably.

He was in no position to help himself. She'd seen to that.

She'd regret it though - for a short time, anyway.

"I don't know who you are or why you did this, and I don't care." he whispered in her ear. "Maybe you rolled out on the wrong side of the broomstick. Maybe you got a good look at yourself in those pants. Doesn't matter. You do this? You die."

He tightened his grip as she struggled, but even with her superior training, she was no match for the righteous fury of a Winchester. When her eyes rolled skyward, and her struggles began to weaken, he yanked her to her feet and tossed her the rest of the way down the steps to the cold floor below.

He heard the air leave her body in a loud whoosh that sounded sweet like a symphony. He stepped forward and placed one booted foot on her neck, bearing down. When he was sure she was debilitated, his eyes traveled upward, drawn to the defeated figure strapped to the chair in the middle of the floor.

If it wasn't for the shaking, Dean would be certain the boy was dead.

He took a stuttering breath and spoke his brother's name, but there was no response. His eyes traveled around the room then, from the heavy double doors he'd tried earlier, to the tray filled with horrifying instruments that could only have one purpose. The tools were swimming in blood. The tray that held them puddled with it. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slightly, delighting in the whimper that resulted.

He reached down and grabbed the woman's arm. He dragged her ruthlessly across the cold cement of the floor until he was within arm's reach of a coil of rope. It was tricky with both hands cuffed, but he managed to hog-tie her. Unable to retrieve her voice, she turned pleading eyes on him before he was done.

He saw and snorted, "Nice try, sweetheart, but you don't even come close." He wrestled the keys from her pocket and shoved her forcefully away. He opened his cuffs, letting them clank to the floor, then turned to approach the quaking figure in the chair. He dropped to his knees beside his brother.

"Sammy." He whispered, one hand brushing the kid's hair back behind his ear. "Sammy, you with me, little bro?"

Nothing but the sound of his brother's labored breaths as the kid struggled to stay alive.

Dean moved to stand behind the shattered kid, fitting the key into the cuffs that held Sam helpless in the chair. As he moved around to the other side, his eyes fell to his brother's feet, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

"Sonofabitch." He swore, folding himself to his knees. He reached out a shaking hand and gently lifted the filthy bandage that hung in tattered shards. He hissed as he stared at the carnage that had once been Sam's right foot.

"I'll kill her, Sam. You hear me? She fucking dies for this." Dean couldn't see for the sudden water that filled his eyes. He touched the swelling gently and was startled by the sound of Sam's voice, broken, defeated.

"Don't." The younger man scratched out, and if Dean hadn't been crouched by the wayside, he'd never even had heard it.

"Please … no more."

"Shh, Sammy. You're safe now. You hear me? You're safe. I'm here. It's gonna be fine." He carefully cut the ties that secured Sam's feet to the legs of the chair and caught the kid as he pitched forward, the change in position wrenching a cry from his parched lips.

But Dean held on, eyes closing. He gripped his devastated brother tight and felt the younger man's fear and humiliation tremble through him. He smelled Sam's blood, tasted the sweat from Sam's hair where it dripped onto his own face, felt the uncontrolled tremors that wracked him.

And he tried not to lose it all together.

He'd let this happen.

He'd let his attention wander for just a moment - caught up in saving the damned world. He'd let himself get sidetracked from his most important job.

He had one fucking job.

"No. Stop … Dean."

"I'm here. I got you." Dean reassured. And if his voice quavered, who would know?

Then, "Dead. Dean's … dead."

"Not dead. Right here, Sasquatch. Now come on. Time to go."

Dean cut the lock on the outside doors and wrestled his brother up the steps. When Sam was safely tucked away in the passenger seat of Dad's old car where he belonged, Dean moved to the trunk and rooted through the weapon's bag. He toted the gun back down into the bowels of the basement and tied up Sam's loose end. It was too quick and easy and way too painless, but Dean had other fish to fry.

He tossed the gun in the trunk and settled himself behind the wheel. Glancing over once, he saw Sam staring back at him through wounded eyes filled with disbelief and hope. And as the ancient car rumbled to life, Dean smiled over at the ruined man who would forever be 10 years old in his eyes.

"I swear, Sammy. I leave you alone for half a freakin' day …"


End file.
